I could hardly miss it. It gleamed white, already having shed its enveloping fog. “The Temple of Jupiter Capitolinus,” I dutifully intoned.
“Where Triumphs conclude, the celebrant dedicates his laurel crown, and the two flawless white oxen are sacrificed.”
“I know, I saw Claudius’s.” I did not want to undercut him, but I already knew these places. Where did he think I had been for twelve years?
“Ah. Yes.” He waved his arm once more, then went on with things I already knew. “These areas together—the Palatine Hill we are standing on, the Capitoline Hill, and the Forum in between—are the extent of the original Rome, inside the area called the Pomerium, drawn by Romulus.”
“Surely you don’t believe Romulus drew a line and created Rome?” I asked.
He sighed. “No, I don’t. And I don’t believe Romulus and Remus were brought up by a wolf, either. But there are days I wish I did. It’s a pretty story.”
We descended down the sloping street into the Forum. Seneca was a slow walker, stopping often to catch his breath. “I have weak lungs,” he said. “I’ve been plagued by them all my life. But because of them, I lived in Egypt for a while. Alexandria. Ah, now there’s a city! But another time, another time,” he muttered, catching himself before he compared the two—to Rome’s detriment. “Ah, here we are.” It had taken us a long time to make the short walk.
The Forum was relatively quiet; it was still early. Wisps of mist clung to the buildings, filmy as a goddess’s gown. Right ahead of us was the Temple of the Divine Julius—a small but tall temple with a columned front porch. Heaps of wilting flowers and wreaths of bay leaves adorned the steps and carpeted the interior, right up to a statue of Caesar with his divine star. They were left from the recent day of mourning for Caesar’s assassination. There were also oil lamps flickering amid the offerings, with depictions of Caesar.
We walked circumspectly around it. “The temple is built on the spot where he was cremated, after the funeral speech Marc Antony made that drove the crowd wild,” he said.
“The divine Julius,” I said. “Do you believe that?”
He looked around to see if anyone might overhear. “That a man can become a god? Or that he was a god all along, in mortal disguise? The former, perhaps; the latter, never.” We moved back to let two women lay fresh flowers on the steps. “It was almost a hundred years ago,” he said, “and people remember. That is one way of being a god, I suppose.”
More people were arriving and the small spaces were becoming crowded. “Come,” said Seneca. “On to the next forum.” On our way we walked past the Curia, its massive doors closed, no Senate in session. And past the splendid gilded pillar that measured all distances from Rome. And past the Rostra, the famous speaking platform adorned with the beaks of captured ships. Then we rounded one building and were within the Forum of Julius Caesar, smaller than the old Forum, but new and symmetrical. At its far end was a high podium temple, its columns sparkling white: the Temple of Venus Genetrix—Venus the Ancestor.
“And here is where Caesar laid the trap that caught him,” said Seneca. Before going in, he rested on a stone to catch his breath again. The sun was now well up and warming the grounds. A half-moon was high in the sky, mottled white against blue, a remnant of the night. I was content to wait and watch these things.
He hauled himself up and walked to the steps. Inside it was quite dim. “Close your eyes,” he said, “and I will lead you in.” I took his dry but warm hand and obeyed. I felt the change in temperature right away as we left the sun. “Now open them.”
For a moment I saw nothing. Then, swimming out of the darkness, a golden statue glimmered. She was more than life-sized, posed in a natural stance, with lifelike features. She was wearing what looked like real jewels—pearls in her ears.
“Behold Cleopatra!” he said. “Yes, it is she! He put her statue here, as Venus, in the temple dedicated to his family’s descent from the goddess. It was an affront to all propriety. Caesar had now overreached himself—his disdain for public opinion was revealed. And it only got worse from there.”
I stared at it. Was this a true likeness? Had her son Alexander Helios stolen quietly in here to look at her over the years?
“Why is it still here?” I asked. After all, Cleopatra had been formally declared the enemy of Rome.
“No one could prove it was Cleopatra. And as time passed and there were no living memories of her, the impetus to remove the statue faded. Augustus was too good a politician to stir up unnecessary controversy.”
The dim, cool temple held few people, and it felt good to emerge out into the warmth again. We strolled over to Augustus’s Forum, lying adjacent to Caesar’s, nudging up against it as his young great-nephew had done in real life. But it was far grander, for it had a massive temple to Mars Ultor—Mars the Avenger—as well as colored marble colonnades on both sides, festooned with Athenian-style caryatids and carved shields. The temple stood on a tall podium, its columns of gleaming white, its pediments ornamented with gods.
In contrast to the almost deserted Caesar temple, this one swarmed with people, mainly youths hurrying up the steps. They were all wearing the white toga of manhood and clutched offerings in their hands.
“I brought you here so you can see what happens when a boy takes the toga virilis,” he said. “Two days after the day of mourning for Caesar comes the ceremony of manhood. Roman boys of noble families come here to dedicate themselves to Mars. Afterward the family has a feast.”
I watched their eager, fresh faces, glowing with exhilaration as they climbed the steps, the new togas flapping about their legs.
“They are now full Roman citizens,” said Seneca. “Adults in the eyes of the law.”
We mounted the steps and entered the temple. Throngs of white-clad boys were milling about. In the back was the expected statue of Mars in full battle armor, flanked by Venus on one side and the divine Julius on the other. Arrayed on all sides were Roman standards recovered from enemy hands, crowns, and scepters from bygone Triumphs dedicated to Mars.
“Truly a shrine to war and every tool of it,” said Seneca.
“When ages to come look back on Rome, is that what we will be remembered for? War?”
“It seems to be our leading trait.”
“I’m not drawn to war,” I blurted out. “It doesn’t speak to me. It must not speak to you, either. You never served in the army, did you?”
“My lungs—”
“Saved you,” I finished for him, although it was rude. “What will save me?”
He looked perturbed. Clearly there was no answer—no ready one, anyway.
“I can’t think of anything more unpleasant and boring than marching miles with a pack or setting up a camp,” I said.
Seneca laughed. “You would not be doing those things. You would be commanding those who do them.”
“Unless I had wings, I would still have to march the miles, even without the gear.” I shook my head. “It’s not because I can’t do those things. I can wrestle, run, and climb with the best of them. But in competition, which has a goal.”
“Generals would disagree with you that war does not have a goal.”
“The divine Augustus”—I swept my arm across the rows of standards—“was a terrible soldier but he managed to disguise it. He spent the battle of Actium being seasick in his cabin, and he let Antony win the battle of Philippi for him. If only I could be so clever.” I kept my voice low.
Leaving the shrine to Mars, we then turned to the shrine to Augustus himself. At the far end of the Forum, in a hall, was a great statue of him. His feet were as long as man’s height, and his head reached the high ceiling, as tall as six men standing on one another’s shoulders.
His sightless eyes looked down on me. Was that a slight downward turn of his mouth? Was he taking my measure, saying, Great-great-grandson, what are you made of
?
“You will lay your old boyhood toga at his feet,” Seneca said. Bundles of them now lay at those enormous marble feet.
But his voice was faint; Augustus’s was louder.
What are you made of? he kept asking.
XXIII
I t felt good to leave the worshipful environs of Augustus behind and exit the Forum. Outside, the crowds had increased; it was the busiest time of day now. People were jostling for space to walk, and we had to push our way through. Beggars and vendors assaulted us, pulling on our tunics. A lantern salesman swung his wares in our faces, yapping about how precious they were. A soldier on patrol shooed him away, muttering.
But if I hoped to escape Augustus, I was mistaken. He and his memorials were everywhere, and Seneca was obligated to lead me to them all. Next were the Campus Martius and Augustus’s mausoleum, his Altar of Peace, and his Sundial. Sighing, I followed Seneca out of the mob and into the calmer space of the Campus.
The Campus Martius—the Field of Mars—a large area west of the forums and along the Tiber, had traditionally been the place where men practiced military drills and exercised. But it was filling in, and the southern part had many public buildings; the northern part was still fairly empty with open grass fields. So Augustus had chosen that area to build his monuments to himself, to be more visible standing alone in open air.
“Oh my,” Seneca said. “The distances seem greater and greater.” We trudged along, passing out of the area where Agrippa had built his Pantheon and his artificial lake. There was a straight street between the Pantheon and the mausoleum, bordered on each side by tall trees and a park of open fields. It was entirely refreshing, tranquil, soothing. Spring flowers waved in the fields on either side, little spots of yellow, white, and purple in the green grass.
Off to our right a red granite obelisk beckoned, with an apron of stone pavement around it: the Sundial. As we approached, I saw that the obelisk was casting a shaft of shadow across the pavement, but not a very long one.
“It’s noon, so it will be at its shortest,” said Seneca, puffing from the walk.
I looked up to the top; it was surmounted by a golden sphere and a spire, making its tip the finger marking the time. My neck strained to bend far enough back to see the top. I would guess it to be as high as ten men, at least.
“Augustus brought it from Egypt,” Seneca said. “Another of his spoils.” He walked around the pavement, fitted with bronze markers to measure the length of the shadow at different times of the year. “On Augustus’s birthday, near the autumn equinox, the shadow reaches almost to the altar table inside the Ara Pacis, the Altar of Peace.” He pointed to a low building lying to the east. “The obelisk is dedicated to Apollo, Augustus’s divine protector, god of the sun. The shadow will grow longer after the winter solstice, the date that Augustus was conceived, supposedly after his mother’s nocturnal encounter with Apollo in his temple. So, this all emphasizes that he was divine.”
“A bit heavy-handed,” I said. “But the park is lovely.”
We walked across the pavement, crossing the various demarcation lines for the seasons and the zodiac. Suddenly we were right before the Altar of Peace. It was a square building with an open portal and an altar inside. Exquisite carvings adorned the marble inside and out. It was surprisingly small, a precious jewel of beauty.
As we entered it, I truly felt a peace descend. Whether the atmosphere inside was sacred, or the carvings depicted such serenity and contentment, I do not know, but the blessing fell over me like a mantle. I felt protected, safe, and held in hands of infinite compassion.
If only I could stay here, I thought. I would never feel pain or fear again.
Seneca stayed quietly in the back, watching me, letting me soak in the balm of this place. Finally he took my hand. “We must complete the journey,” he said, leading me outside.
Compared to the holy stillness of the Altar, even the spring park outside seemed garish. We walked silently as I waited for the hush inside me to drain away.
Looming ahead of us was the huge drumlike structure of the Mausoleum of Augustus, surrounded by an arbor and laid out in a symmetrical park. Here he rested, along with the rest of his family. Here it all ended, even for the ruler of the world.
“I saw the procession for the ashes of many,” said Seneca. “Not Augustus himself, but Tiberius, Germanicus, and Caligula bringing the ashes of his mother, Agrippina the Elder. It is an honor to lie with the rest of your family in such a place.” He pointed toward a white-fenced area to the south. “That is the actual place where Augustus was cremated.”
I shuddered, even in the warm air. “Since we cannot enter, let us pay our respects and leave.” A sad list of the inhabitants of that gloomy structure was posted near the entrance. Marcellus, Octavia, Augustus, Agrippa, Tiberius’s son Drusus, Tiberius himself, Augustus’s grandsons Lucius and Gaius, Livia, and the others Seneca had mentioned. A dark parade, into the dark.
The mausoleum lay beside the Tiber, and we climbed down to sit by its banks. I felt as drained as Seneca.
“History is tiring,” he said, looking at me with understanding. “The weight of all those other lives can press you down. And those lives were weightier than most.” He surprised me by motioning to a vendor on the river path, buying wine and cheese and bread for us. “We the living should picnic by the river in the sunshine, and be thankful.” He tore off a piece of bread and handed it to me.
Before us the swollen spring river was flowing swiftly. The scarlet poppies and pale asphodels along the bank swayed bravely in the breeze. We the living.
“We have both lost people in our lives,” he said. “I lost a son at a very young age and was never given another. And you have lost two fathers. Did you know, Crispus was a good friend of mine? I mourned him on Corsica but could not attend his funeral.”
Should I say what I knew? No. It would be dangerous, besides being pointless now. But I was happy to know someone who had been close to him. When the one you love is gone, anyone or anything connected to them makes them live again, in an attenuated way.
“He was good to me,” I said. “I will miss him forever.”
“The Fates sometimes send us where we are needed,” he said. “Where there is lack.”
He did not need to say anything more. But I knew what he meant. Perhaps we can mend one another’s lack. You lack a father, I lack a son.
XXIV
The last halcyon days of my childhood: let me look back on them now. They are made especially precious by being so limited, and so glorious in that I did not know then they were limited.
Why should I? I was twelve years old, a long way even from the toga virilis, a ceremony that was mainly symbolic. Claudius was in good health—well, good health for Claudius was poor health for anyone else, but he had limped along, literally, now for sixty years. Augustus had lived into his midseventies, and Tiberius had been almost eighty. So there was no reason to suppose anything but another decade or two of uneventful life for all of us.
I grew taller and stronger. I learned scholarly lessons from Seneca, worldly ones from Anicetus and Beryllus, athletic ones from Apollonius, and naughty ones from Tigellinus. I avoided Octavia and Britannicus as much as I could, which was not difficult. I saw little of Mother and less of Claudius. In short, I was a denizen of the self-absorbed world of late childhood, before adult responsibilities encroach on freewheeling diversions and passions. I had also begun to play music and had my first lyre lessons. I dashed from the horse stables (my entrée through Tigellinus) to the music room to the gymnasium to the schoolroom. Seneca chided me as an “energetic idler” and a “busy trifler,” but I was supremely content.
Of course there were things missing—are not there always? I was alone in a sea of adults. I had no companions, no friends of my own age. I was kept isolated by my high station in life (the emperor’s eldest son—no one was higher) and the actual isolat
ion of living in the palace. The boys I knew at the stables and the athletic field would not have been welcomed there, and most of them did not even know my true identity. I had chosen that route in the belief it gave me freedom, but at the same time secrets are isolating in the long run.
Was I lonely? Yes and no. I had never had a friend of my own age, so I could not truly miss what I had never experienced, except as a vague ache. But I was so busy, so challenged and excited by all I was experiencing, I did not brood on what was lacking.
I was paraded out on social occasions and was aware of political tensions between the various advisers in high places, all vying to control Claudius and Mother. But Mother controlled Claudius (who was ever a pliable dupe for his wives) and so it was Mother who was the prize Narcissus, Pallas, and Burrus all tussled for. But no one controlled Mother; they should have known that.
Narcissus was undone when what became known as the “Fucine Lake incident” was blamed on him. Claudius had entrusted him with an ambitious project to drain the Fucine Lake, a malarial lake about sixty miles from Rome. A grand entertainment sea battle was scheduled to be fought on the lake, and then the drainage channels were to be opened and the lake emptied right before the emperor’s—and the huge audience’s—eyes. However, the first time this was staged, the water failed to drain. The next time, it drained so fast and furiously it nearly drowned the spectators, of which I was one. I had been forced to don military garb and attend the event alongside Claudius and Mother. Wet and sopping, her glorious gold-threaded cloak ruined, Mother used this as a way to ruin Narcissus, saying he had appropriated money meant for the project and thus it was not properly funded and engineered.
True or not, Narcissus was dismissed. Mother had disliked him and seized on this chance to abolish his influence with Claudius. She continued to exercise near-imperial power—visiting public works, receiving foreign envoys, and meddling in financial matters. Her protégé—and some said her lover—the freedman Pallas now rose in power under her aegis. Claudius nodded on, drinking too much at dinners and falling asleep while Mother tightened her grip on national affairs. I fled as much as I could. Cowardly? Selfishly? Naïvely? Perhaps all three.